The Perfect Wife

Somewhere between my third glass of overpriced Barolo and Marco showing everyone photos of his boat, I noticed the piece of spinach lodged in his front tooth. It had been there through two courses of deconstructed whatever-the-fuck and nobody had told him. Not even me. Especially not me. I kept staring at it, losing track of his endless droning about permits and zoning regulations. I nodded anyway, like the good corporate wife I'd become.

That's what happens when you're forty-three and married to a man who thinks half a million euros is a reasonable amount to spend on a floating dick extension we'll use twice this summer. You perfect the art of looking engaged while your mind wanders to whether your period is actually late or if it's just stress making your body betray you. Three days now. Probably nothing. If I were pregnant at my age, I'd throw myself down the stairs. Or maybe I wouldn't. Maybe I'd keep it just to watch Marco's face crumple when I told him.

I didn't realise I was standing until my napkin slid to the floor. Nobody noticed. They were all too busy admiring photos of Marco's new toy on his phone. I muttered something about the bathroom and walked away, feeling the backs of my knees unstick from the leather chair with an inelegant suction. Why do expensive restaurants always keep the temperature so high? Some bullshit about making people drink more, I'm sure. Profit margins on alcohol and all that.

My new shoes pinched my little toe with each step. Too high a heel, but worth the pain. When you reach your forties, people start looking through you instead of at you. The right shoes help delay that particular indignity.

As I passed the bar, I caught the waiter watching me, really watching me, not the polite professional glance they're trained to give. Young guy. Maybe twenty-five at most, with something Eastern European in the sharp angles of his face. There'd been a crackle when his eyes met mine, the faintest current under my skin. I'd fucked a Croatian once, years ago during my Erasmus year. Before Marco. Before I became the kind of woman who counts the years of her life by the men she's been with. The Croatian had a weird cock that curved dramatically to the left. I wondered if this waiter's was similarly distinctive.

Christ, what was wrong with me tonight?

The restaurant's bathroom was an assault of gold and mirrors, like peeing inside someone's idea of a jewelry box. I hated it immediately. There was a water stain spreading across one corner of the ceiling, brown and ominous. In a place this expensive. Someone should fix that.

I peed forever, the relief almost sexual after holding it through Marco's endless droning. Then I just sat there scrolling through Instagram, looking at photos of people from liceo whose children were somehow already sixteen. How the fuck was Giulia's daughter sixteen already? It seemed impossible that so much time had passed, that we were all getting old while I wasn't paying attention.

When I finally emerged from the stall, he was there. The waiter. Just standing in the women's bathroom like it was perfectly normal.

"What the fuck?" I didn't bother with politeness. "Che cazzo ci fai qui?"

His accent confirmed my suspicions when he apologised. Eastern European, with that Slavic softness to the vowels. "I saw you come in and I wanted to..."

"To what? Follow me into the bathroom? Ma sei fuori di testa? That's seriously fucked up."

"No, no." He looked scared now, which was satisfying. "I wanted to give you my WhatsApp." He held out his phone with the QR code displayed. "Maybe we could..."

I stared at him, trying to understand what was happening. He couldn't be more than twenty-two. Maybe younger. And I looked like hell tonight, my Botox wearing off, lines reappearing around my eyes like unwelcome guests. What game was this kid playing?

"Are you insane? I'm with my husband."

"I know. But you looked at me..."

"I didn't look at you." Except I had. I'd definitely looked. And he'd noticed. Something in me had reached out and touched something in him, a static charge jumping between two bodies, and now here we were, having this absurd conversation in the gold-plated bathroom of Milan's newest overpriced restaurant.

"Just scan it." He held out the phone. "If you want."

I should have called for the manager. Should have gotten him fired. Should have been outraged at his presumption. Instead, I took out my phone. I can't explain why, even now. Maybe because when you've been invisible for so long, being seen is its own kind of intoxication.

"I could get fired for this," he said, as if the risk was supposed to impress me.

"You should get fired for this." I put my phone away, his contact information safely stored. But I didn't delete it.

He was still just standing there, nervous but not leaving. I could smell his aftershave, something cheap and sweet, probably purchased at an airport duty-free shop.

There was still an inch of space between us. Then there wasn't.

His mouth tasted like the mints they kept by the host stand, the ones I always pocketed on the way out. His tongue was too eager, pushing against mine like a teenager who'd learned to kiss from watching porn. I wondered if Marco had noticed my absence yet. Probably not. He was likely still talking about boat propellers or whatever the fuck men discuss when they're trying to measure their worth by the size of their toys.

My hand was in the waiter's hair now. It was softer than it looked. He made a small sound in his throat when I pulled it, so I pulled harder, feeling a surge of something dark and hungry. His hands were on my ass, squeezing through my dress. If anyone walked in right now...

I had a sudden, vivid image of my mother's face. Dead three years now. Heart attack in her sleep. Last week I'd found one of her old scarves in a drawer and just sat on the floor holding it for an hour. Didn't even cry. Just sat there like an idiot, breathing in the faint ghost of her perfume. What would she think of me now, with this boy's tongue in my mouth and his hands on my arse?

"Not here," I muttered against his mouth. Not because I was worried about getting caught. Because it was too bright. Too many mirrors. I'd see myself from every angle, and I wasn't ready for that particular confrontation with reality.

I dragged him into the accessible stall, the big one at the end with the metal rails and the emergency cord. The lock stuck for a second, and I had the absurd thought that no one in a wheelchair ever actually came to this restaurant. Those ramps outside were just for show, like everything else in this city.

"What's your name?" I suddenly needed to know.

"Andrei."

"Where are you from?" I was unbuttoning his trousers as I asked. Multi-tasking has always been my specialty.

"Ukraine." His eyes were closed. Like he couldn't believe this was happening.

"My husband does business in Lviv," I said. Why the fuck was I talking about Marco now? "Or he used to. Before the war."

"I'm from Lviv, the western part!"

I almost laughed at the coincidence. Maybe Marco had met this kid's family. Maybe he'd been in their home, making deals while this boy was still in school. And now I was about to fuck him in a bathroom. There was something deliciously wrong about that, a perverse connection that made me wet in ways I hadn't been in years.

"Non me ne frega un cazzo." I had his cock in my hand now. Uncircumcised. Not too big, not too small. Normal, really. The most disappointing thing about sex was how similar most men's bodies were under their clothes. This one was hard already. They always were at that age, when desire hadn't yet been dulled by repetition and disappointment.

He was pulling up my dress now. His hands were trembling as they slid over my hips, reverent, almost worshipful. To him, I could feel like some rare treasure. To me, it was a stranger's hands on a stranger's body, a body I barely recognised anymore, soft where it used to be taut, Botox fading, betraying my age. A momentary spark where his fingertips traced my skin, then gone.

"You're not wearing knickers," he said. He sounded shocked, scandalized even.

"It's hot as fuck in here." I wasn't trying to be sexy. I'd just been sweating all night. The dress was tight. The underwear had been digging into me, so I'd removed them earlier and stuffed them in my purse.

A thought flashed through my mind, had I planned this? Had some part of me known this would happen? Is that why I'd left the underwear in my purse after using the bathroom earlier? Maybe I wasn't as dead inside as I thought. Maybe somewhere beneath the perfect corporate wife exterior, there was still a woman capable of desire and recklessness.

He dropped to his knees. That was unexpected. Marco hadn't gone down on me in at least two years. Always claimed his back hurt too much to kneel that long. Convenient how his back only hurt for certain activities but never seemed to bother him on the golf course.

"You don't have to..." I started.

His mouth was on me before I could finish. The first drag of his tongue was clumsy, almost painful, then the world narrowed to a sharp, white jolt that ripped straight through the numbness I'd been living in. My hips moved before my mind caught up, grinding against his mouth, taking what I wanted. I wasn't performing this time. I wasn't smiling or pretending. I was receiving, and it felt like electricity. Every slow lap of his tongue was another sharp jolt, alive and real.

My fingers found his hair again. "Piano, cazzo. Lì. Così," I murmured, directing him.

Better. Actually good now. I leaned back against the cubicle wall. The cold tile against my shoulder blades where my dress didn't cover sent a shiver down my spine.

I wondered if this was what rich men felt like all the time. Having someone on their knees. Using them. Taking what you want. My back arched involuntarily as his tongue found just the right spot. I liked it more than I wanted to admit, this sudden reversal of power. For once, I wasn't the one performing. I wasn't the one trying to please. I was simply taking, and there was a heady freedom in that selfishness.

The bathroom door opened. We both froze. I had my hand in this kid's hair, his face between my legs, and Sonia Ricci was at the sink washing her hands and talking on the phone. I could tell it was Sonia from the voice. Marco's partner's wife. The one who'd tried to set me up with that personal trainer last year, as if exercise was the solution to my melancholy.

If we got caught, it would be all over the firm by morning. Marco would find out before I got home. His humiliation would be public and complete.

Part of me wanted that. Wanted him to know. Wanted everyone to know. I'd spent seven years being Marco's perfect corporate wife. The one who smiled in photos and made small talk at aperitivi and pretended I didn't know about the girl in the finance department he was fucking. Sofia or whatever her name was. Tight arse. Pert tits. Twenty-six at most. I'd seen the way he looked at her at the Christmas party, the way his hand lingered at her lower back as he guided her to the bar.

Sonia finally left. Andrei looked up at me, uncertain. His lips were wet with me.

"Stand up," I told him.

He did. I realised I didn't want to look at his face anymore. Didn't want him looking at mine. This wasn't about connection. It was about need and revenge and proving to myself that I still existed as a woman separate from Marco's wife. I turned around. Faced the wall.

"Like this?" he asked.

"Yes."

I liked that he asked. That he wasn't sure. That he waited for me to tell him. Marco never asked for anything. Just took. Assumed. This was different. I was in control here.

He fumbled around behind me. Getting his cock lined up. When he pushed inside, the friction burned, and I welcomed it. Pain meant something. Pain meant I could still feel. Each thrust was static, a charge building in my spine until it snapped.

I thought about Marco sitting out there with his business partners. Thought about him fucking that girl from finance. Thought about how he probably did this exact same thing, bent her over his desk after hours, when the cleaning staff had gone home and the office was empty except for ambitious young things trying to sleep their way up the corporate ladder.

"Più forte," I hissed over my shoulder. "Sbattimi più forte."

I wanted it to hurt tomorrow. Wanted to feel it when I sat across from Marco at breakfast. A secret ache he wouldn't know about. Something just for me.

Andrei's thrusts were getting harder. The metal partition rattled. Anyone in the restaurant could probably hear it if they were close enough to the hallway. I didn't care. Let them hear. Let them wonder. Let them know that Marco Visconti's perfect wife was being fucked in a bathroom stall by a waiter young enough to be her son.

I had that feeling I sometimes got during sex. Like I was floating somewhere above my body, watching myself. Like this was happening to someone else. Some other woman bent over in a cabina del bagno with a Ukrainian waiter's cock inside her. Not me. Not the woman who chaired charity galas and knew which fork to use for fish and smiled prettily at Marco's jokes even when they weren't funny.

I wondered what my friends would think if they could see me now. The ones who envied my life. My clothes. My husband. My perfect bloody life. Would they still envy me? Or would they pity me? Maybe they'd understand. Maybe they were all doing the same thing with different men in different bathrooms, all of us seeking something our carefully constructed lives couldn't provide.

My knees were starting to hurt from leaning against the tile. I'd have bruises tomorrow. Hard to explain those. Or maybe not. Maybe I'd tell Marco I fell. He probably wouldn't even ask.

Andrei was making these desperate little sounds behind me. He was close. I'd forgotten to tell him to pull out. I should say something now. But I didn't.

Part of me wanted him to finish inside me. Wanted to feel owned by someone other than Marco, just for a moment. Wanted to be marked in some way that was my choice, not his. It was stupid. Dangerous. I didn't care.

"Sto venendo," I whispered, surprising myself. "Porca troia, sto venendo."

I came just as he did. A coincidence. My whole body shaking. His fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave marks. For a minute we just stayed like that. Breathing hard. Connected in the most primal way possible. Then he pulled out and reality started bleeding back in.

Something wet ran down the inside of my thigh. I turned and looked at him, his cock still half-hard. Without thinking, I dropped to my knees. Took him in my mouth. Tasted myself. Tasted him. His hands hovered uncertainly near my hair. His breath caught in his throat.

I pulled away after a moment, surprised at myself. I'd never done that before. Not with Marco. Not with anyone. I wasn't even sure why I'd done it now, except that it felt like the completion of something, a circuit closed, a story finished.

"That was..." Andrei trailed off. Like he didn't have the words.

"Yep." I didn't have the words either.

We cleaned up in silence. My dress was wrinkled. My hair was coming out of its clip. I looked exactly like what I was, a woman who'd just been fucked in a bathroom. There would be no hiding it. Marco would know something had happened, if he bothered to look at me.

Andrei hesitated at the door. "Can I see you again?"

I almost laughed. "No."

"But..."

"This wasn't a beginning. It was just a thing that happened."

I meant it to sound cold. Final. But he looked so young standing there with his shirt half-untucked. I softened a little.

"Senti, sei stato bravo. But this isn't a movie. I'm not leaving my husband for the waiter."

"I didn't ask you to leave your husband."

"What do you want then?"

He looked confused. Like he hadn't thought that far ahead. "Just to see you again."

"To fuck again, you mean."

He flushed. I'd embarrassed him. "Not just that."

Now I did laugh. The sound echoed off the bathroom tiles. "What then? You want to take me on a date? Where would we go that people wouldn't see us? Questa è Milano, cazzo. Everyone knows everyone."

"We could go somewhere else. I have a car."

Jesus Christ. He was serious. "How old are you? Really?"

"Twenty-two."

I'd been right the first time. Too young. Way too young. A child playing at being a man.

"So?" He looked genuinely confused, like age was just a number. It must be nice to be that young. To think that way.

"So this was fun, but it's done." I straightened my dress. Tried to smooth my hair. It was hopeless. I looked like exactly what I was.

He looked hurt. I hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected him to feel anything beyond the conquest. Men usually don't.

"Wait," he said as I reached for the lock. "Promise you'll message me, just once."

I should say no. Should leave it at this. But something made me nod. Not because I'd message him. I wouldn't. But because it felt good to be wanted. To be looked at that way again. To matter to someone, even if only for the length of a bathroom fuck.

"Goodbye, Andrei."

I didn't look back as he left.

In the mirror, I looked wrecked. Lipstick smeared. Hair falling down. I did my best to fix it, but there was only so much I could do. I'd just have to hope no one looked too closely. Or maybe I hoped they would. Maybe I wanted Marco to see. To know. To feel something.

When I got back to the table, Marco glanced up. "You were gone forever."

"I ran into Sophia Bianchi," I lied. "You remember her? From the party last month?"

"Mmm." He'd already lost interest. Back to his phone. The spinach or whatever it was was still in his tooth. No one had told him. Not even me. Especially not me.

Andrei was back at his post by the bar. Not looking at me. I wondered if he was thinking about what had just happened. If he'd go home and masturbate to the memory later. If he'd tell his friends about the older woman he'd fucked in the bathroom of Milano's fanciest new restaurant.

I had his semen inside me right now. Drying on my thighs because I hadn't cleaned up properly. I'd spend the rest of dinner like this. Making small talk with Marco's colleagues while another man's come dried on my skin.

I should feel something about that. Guilt. Shame. Excitement. Something. But I just felt tired. Bone-deep tired, the kind that sleep doesn't fix.

The sommelier came by to refill my wine. I nodded my thanks. Wasn't Andrei supposed to be doing that? Maybe he'd asked to be reassigned. Maybe he couldn't look at me either.

"Are you feeling alright?" Marco was looking at me now. "You look flushed."

For one wild moment I thought about telling him. Right here at the table. I just fucked the waiter in the bathroom. His come is inside me right now. What do you think about that?

I imagined the scene that would follow. The shouting. The crying. Everyone staring. It would be in all the gossip columns tomorrow. Marco Visconti's Wife Causes Scene.

"I'm fine," I said. "Just a headache."

Later, at home, I opened WhatsApp and looked at his profile. He had a photo of himself standing in front of some mountain. His status said "Living the dream." I almost deleted the contact. Then didn't. Not because I'd message him. Just to have it. Just to know that someone had wanted me enough to risk his job. That I could still inspire that kind of recklessness in someone, even if it was just a boy who didn't know any better.

I dreamed that night. Not about my mother this time. About the restaurant. But different. I was back in that bathroom, but the door kept opening. More waiters coming in. Watching. Their faces blurring together. In the dream, I wasn't afraid or ashamed. Just powerful. Wanted.